


Goodbye, Dean

by Tanya_Meridia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Blade, M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:39:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanya_Meridia/pseuds/Tanya_Meridia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was untouchable, invincible, and the demons before him – so tiny in comparison to his power – fell to the ground like flies.</p><p>Cas needs Dean too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye, Dean

He was standing outside some fucking industrial complex in Illinois, a collection of different sized warehouses, when he could finally make the call. He clutched the phone tightly, waiting impatiently, hoping to God that Crowley would actually answer his goddamn phone,  
“This is the King.” Dean rolled his eyes, but he didn’t bother to reply,  
“I’ve found her,” he said, blunt,  
“Well done, squirrel.” Crowley sounded almost genuine,  
“Yeah, yeah, bring me the damn blade,” Dean snapped,  
“Oh, so demanding,” he sounded so unbelievably snide that Dean just wanted to throw his phone at the brick wall in front of him,  
“Don’t pretend you don’t want the bitch dead as much as I do,” Dean growled, “I don’t have time for your shit Crowley, just bring me the goddamn blade.” Dean forced himself not to flinch when Crowley appeared right in front of him,  
“Hello, darling,” Crowley said, hanging up his phone. Dean glared as he hung up his own,  
“How did you know I was here?” he demanded,  
“I’ve learned some new tricks.” Dean was about to ask exactly what that meant, but Crowley had pulled the blade out of his coat, and Dean was suddenly unable to focus on anything else. He stared at it, and his hand twitched. Crowley pulled it away,  
“Ooh, you’re itching for it, aren’t you?”  
“Crowley, stop fucking around. Give. Me. The blade.” Crowley hesitated, clearly torn between getting what he wanted and giving Dean what he wanted. Finally, he held it out, and Dean reached out, waiting for a snide remark. It didn’t come. As soon as Dean’s fingers closed around the blade, Crowley vanished.

* * *

Dean could hear his own heartbeat. The blade felt warm and solid in his hand, adrenaline thrumming through his veins. Warmth surged through him, sliding around his muscles and slithering into his mind. He breathed heavily, trying to work out exactly what he was feeling. He had a strange, almost overwhelming need to do something, but he couldn’t work out what. He walked toward the door, fingers shifting against the blade’s handle.

The first demon he encountered was alone; it was a young man, a boy really, with dark skin and dark hair. Some small part of Dean protested, pointing out that there was a person in there, but he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t bother to hide or avoid being seen, he simply walked up to him and swung the blade. The feeling he got when the blade hit the demon’s throat was almost overwhelming. There had been something like this with Gadreel, but it was a shadow of it, a kiss compared to an orgasm. He gasped when the rush hit, heavy and intoxicating; he stood still for a moment, relishing the intense, visceral pleasure of it. He exhaled, a moan catching the end of a breath, and went looking for more. 

The place was crawling with them; some stood alone, some lounged in groups of two or three, and some patrolled the building, clearly on guard. Usually that would have been a problem, but now, it was a fucking blessing. Headless bodies collapsed; men and women of varying ages, the rush strengthening with each blow. Dean stalked through the warehouse, the blade slicing through the air in blurred arcs. He couldn’t help himself, the intensity of it building with every swipe of his blade. He felt oddly pure, filled with an overwhelming conviction that this was right. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing, as if he had been charged with some divine purpose.

* * *

He was trembling when he walked through the doors of the second warehouse. The blade was whispering to him now, telling him to kill, that the way to feel that rush again was to find a body and behead it. He scanned the room, searching for demons, craving the rush that their deaths would bring. He breathed deeply, actually shaking now, his body insisting that he kill something right the fuck now. 

He found a young blonde woman, and beheaded her without ever seeing her face. The sound of the blade slicing through her neck was like a benediction. The rush was even stronger now, but it wasn’t enough; he needed more. Dean gripped the blade tightly, fingers shifting against the perfectly fitted curves along the handle. His head was a mess, all rational thought overpowered by a blind urge to swing the blade. He needed it, needed the feeling, needed to kill, and the need was so strong that any question, any doubt, was completely erased from his mind. Instead, he killed everything he saw, and the demons barely got a decent punch in. Everything he saw became a headless corpse, any movement halted by the swing of his blade.

* * *

The third warehouse was a blur, a blind search for bodies, the blade crooning to him all the while. He was getting more creative with it, stabbing and slicing and twisting. He was fast, the rush almost constant now, barely having time to fade between killings. His eyes were misted red, his mind blank except for the singular thought of more. He was untouchable, invincible, and the demons before him – so tiny in comparison to his power – fell to the ground like flies.

He came back to himself a little when he saw a flash of bright red hair. He stopped, standing stock still, taking a moment to consider his strategy. The obvious plan was to sneak up behind her, not giving her a chance to defend herself, but part of him wanted the satisfaction of seeing her face as she died. He decided on the latter, stalking towards Abaddon,  
“Hey, bitch,” he growled. Abaddon turned, looking genuinely shocked when she saw him. She covered it almost instantly. Dean surged towards her, bringing the blade up as he went. He was seconds away from the killing blow, body thrumming in anticipation. Abaddon flicked her hand slightly, so casual she could have been flicking away a fly, but Dean was thrown against the wall, and all of his focus when to hanging onto the blade. He struggled feebly, pushing against the invisible bindings holding him against the wall. Abaddon stalked towards him, eyes fixed on the blade clutched in his hand,  
“How the hell did you get your hands on that,” she purred, voice velvety and dangerous,  
“None of your fucking business,” Dean growled. He was trembling a little, aching to give in to the demands of his body, to chase the rush that was being dangled in front of him,  
“Oh, I rather think it is, you self-righteous prick,” Abaddon hissed, face stone cold. She grabbed his wrist, twisting it and pulling up the sleeve, eyes falling on the hole in his sleeve, the mark framed by burnt fabric. Dean tensed, struggling again, thinking he felt the tiniest bit of give around his left ankle,  
“How did you get this?” Abaddon growled, looking at him in shock,  
“Apparently I was worthy.” Dean smirked, tensing his thighs, amazed to find that he could move them a little, “Yeah, I went to see old Cain, and he decided to help me out.” Abaddon’s face just shut down at the mention of Cain’s name,  
“Let me guess, you told him you were going to use it to kill me?” she asked, voice like silk,  
“Lucky guess.” Dean moved his legs again, shifting his hips in the tiny space that he had. He tensed his whole body, preparing to push off the wall with everything he had. He shoved, muscles screaming with the strain of it, pushing against the wall with his feet. He almost fell forward, stumbling as he suddenly broke through the bindings. He grabbed Abaddon immediately, taking advantage of her shock. Dean wrapped his arm around her upper arms, pulling her back against his chest and pressing the blade against her throat. His body was screaming, shuddering with the need for him to press that blade down. He pulled Abaddon more tightly against him, cursing the awkward angle,  
“Having trouble there, Dean?” she asked, grinning, breathless and struggling a little against his arms,  
“Not enough to save you, sweetheart,” Dean hissed between gritted teeth. He pushed down, but it was too late. Abaddon screamed, black smoke pouring from her mouth and curling around towards a window. Dean swore, flinging Abaddon’s vacated meatsuit to the ground. He scrubbed a hand across his face, breathing heavily. He had been so close, so fucking close, and now he was back at fucking square one. He inhaled slowly, trying to calm down, trying to control the urges that were wracking his body, whispering to him that he needed to kill something. The blade was screaming at him, insisting that he had to kill something; that he needed to.

It was then that Cas burst into the room.

* * *

Dean stood up, blade in hand, just staring at Cas. He was flustered, hair even more ruffled than usual, cheeks flushed a little pink. Dean just stared at him, wondering what the fuck he was doing there,  
“Cas?”  
“Sam called,” Cas replied, getting straight to the point. He looked at Dean for a moment, looking almost devastated when his eyes fell on the blade in Dean’s hand,  
“Dean…” he said, sounding incredibly tired, “Dean, put the blade down.” It sounded simple enough, but he physically couldn’t do it. His arms trembled, fingers unable to let go of the blade. It was louder now, telling him that there was a body in front of him, a body that he could kill, that could give him the rush he was craving,  
“Cas, I can’t,” Dean whispered, looking up at Cas,  
“Yes, you can Dean,” Cas insisted. He walked toward Dean, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder, “Just let it go.” The blade was louder now, practically screaming that all he would have to do was bring the blade up. He fought it, screaming at himself that this was Cas,  
“Cas, get away from me,” he said quietly, knowing he couldn’t hold off much longer, “Get away from me, get out of here.” He was louder now, scared that Cas didn’t seem to be reacting,  
“Dean, just put the blade down,” Cas looked worried now, but he still wasn’t moving,  
“Cas! Get out of here, I can’t hold it off much longer,” Dean growled. He felt himself bringing the blade up, unable to fight it. Cas grabbed his wrist, pulling it down and away from his chest,  
“Dean, I need you to stop this,” he said, his hand like steel around Dean’s wrist, “I need you.” 

Dean’s whole body went slack, and he stared at Cas in a kind of wonder, wondering what exactly Cas meant. He was going to ask, he was going to ask all sorts of questions, but Cas’ grip on his arm relaxed. He twisted his arm out from Cas’ grip, raising the blade as he did so. He couldn’t stop himself, the blade taking over his arm. He managed to pull down at the last second, burying the blade in Cas’ stomach instead of between his ribs. Light shone out, the stolen grace leaking out around the blade. Cas stared at him in shock, before his legs collapsed underneath him. He fell to the ground, hands clutching the blade buried in his stomach. Dean crouched down next to him, staring down at Cas in shock  
“Oh God, Cas, I didn’t –”  
“Dean,” Cas said quietly. Dean pulled the blade out of Cas with shaking hands. He looked at it for a second, before throwing it away, not caring where it landed. He placed his hands roughly over Cas’ stomach, pressing down in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding,  
“You can heal yourself, right? You can heal yourself and you’ll be fine and –”  
“No, Dean. I can hold on for a little while, but even with my own grace, I wouldn’t be able to heal this.” Dean just stared at him, refusing to process what Cas just said. He had just killed Cas; he wasn’t quite dead yet, but Dean had killed him,  
“No,” he whispered, as if saying it would make it so. He pulled Cas against his chest, curling an arm underneath his shoulders, “No, Cas, you son of a bitch, stay with me. Stay with me.” He was almost hysterical, tears spilling from his eyes,  
“Dean, it’s alright,” Cas said, voice quiet and strained,  
“No, it’s not!” Dean practically yelled, “I killed you, Cas.” He bowed over, resting his forehead against the top of Cas’ head, tears falling into his hair,  
“I love you,” he whispered, breath ruffling Cas’ hair  
“I love you too, Dean.” Dean froze, eyes snapping open. He raised his head slowly, looking tentatively down at Cas,  
“What did you say?” Dean asked, not daring to even consider the possibility that he’d heard right,  
“I love you, Dean,” Cas replied, louder this time, the strain evident in his voice. Dean just stared at him; stared at his beautiful blue eyes, feeling as though he was about to burst. Cas felt the same way. Cas was dying and Dean had killed him and he felt the same way. Just for a second, Dean let himself forget what was happening, and he leaned down and pressed his lips against Cas’. It was soft, chaste even, and Dean brought his hand up to cup Cas’ face, his thumb stroking Cas’ cheekbone. He wanted more; he wanted to lick into Cas’ mouth and push himself against him, but he couldn’t, and the kiss was so gentle it was almost devastating.

When Dean pulled away, Cas was staring up at him with eyes shining with tears, but the life was clearly fading out of them,  
“Dammit Cas, hold on,” he said, giving himself over to despair again. Cas just smiled that little smile of his, reaching up to press his palm against Dean’s cheek. Dean closed his eyes, clutching Cas against him,  
“Oh God, you’re not even gonna… Cas, you’re gonna get stuck in the vale.” Sure, Heaven wasn’t exactly the best deal anymore, but it definitely beat being stuck in between,  
“I know, Dean.” Dean wanted to scream, wanted to ask how the hell Cas was okay with that,  
“I’ll fix it for you,” Dean promised, kissing his hair, “I’ll fix Heaven so you can go home.”  
“Come and find me when you get there,” Cas said, smiling again. Dean was amazed, yet again, but Cas’ seemingly unshakable faith in him,  
“Cas, I hate to break it to you, but I’m going to Hell.” Dean almost wanted to laugh,  
“No, Dean, you’re not. If anyone deserves to go to heaven, it’s you.” Dean wanted to protest, but it was all just too much,  
“There’s a reason I fell in love with you, you know,” Cas said, “You are a good man, Dean,”  
“Cas, I just stabbed you.”  
“No, Dean, the Mark of Cain did.” Dean just didn’t understand how Cas could do this. How Cas could look past all his faults and still see him as a good person, as someone he wanted to be around. As someone he could love. Dean closed his eyes, resting his forehead in Cas’ hair again, taking a second to just breathe. Cas put a warm hand on the back of his neck, pulling Dean down and kissing him. It was harder this time, Cas’ tongue sliding into his mouth and curling around his own. Dean made a muffled little sound against Cas’ lips, kissing him back with everything he had, tangling his hand in Cas’ hair. It was rough and desperate, and Dean never wanted it to end,  
“Goodbye, Dean,” Cas whispered, finally breaking the kiss,  
“No, Cas, come on, stay with me, stay with me,” Dean begged, and Cas smiled his little smile,  
“I love you,” he whispered,  
“I love you too, Cas.” Dean kissed the top of Cas’ head, burying his face in Cas’ hair once again, tears pouring from his eyes as Cas faded away.


End file.
